


Provisionally

by visforvictory



Series: Small Things that Bloom [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cawke, F/M, Hullen - Freeform, descending into angst probably., fairly nonsensical, what a waste of a face
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 14:45:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11534409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visforvictory/pseuds/visforvictory
Summary: Bran Cavin, one-time provisional Viscount of Kirkwall, catches the Champion and her consort en flagrante at the new Viscount's inaugurational ball.





	Provisionally

A BAD DAY IN KIRKWALL

Bran Cavin was having a poor day being provisional Viscount of Kirkwall, in the wake of the Champion's unforgivably abrupt departure. He was not pleased with her. He was not at all pleased with the newest and latest Knight-Commander either, who had likewise absconded his post at the Gallows, taken everyone who would follow him and run off with the Seeker who'd come to Kirkwall to cause Bran infinite amounts of trouble.

And the red templars, the godsdamned vile creatures... He added it to his list of things he could be unhappy at the Rutherford boy for. Add a bullet point for every single time Bran had caught him mooning at the Champion, and worse, the times she had mooned back.

'Red templars!' came a wail from below. 'Seneschal, they're at the doors. They want to speak with you.'

Bran swore. Where were the godsdamned guards? Where was Vallen? He stormed out of his office and down to the Keep's entrance.

'What do you want?' he demanded. Three of them, skin corrupt with red weals that made Bran long for a bath. Their leader looked oddly familiar despite the almost-crystalline growths on his face.

'You're that drunk bastard from the docks,' Bran snapped. By his side, the aide who had followed him out quivered.

'I think you'll find that's General Samson to you now,' said the leader, that thing Bran couldn't quite call a man.

'Templars don't have generals,' Bran snapped. 'Get off my steps.'

'I speak of a new order,' the thing droned on, in an unbearably obnoxious voice. 'The Red Templars. We serve a new master, one higher than Meredith or the Chantry could ever be. There are enough of us here to take the Keep if we want, Viscount. Or should I say, temporary Viscount.'

'What in the seven thousand blasted bloody hells do you want?'

'A little support from the Keep's coffers, shall we say?'

'Absolutely not,' Bran snarled, while his aide stared at him in horror. 'We don't have any money. _Get out_.'

'Why, you've more of a spine than I thought,' said the thing calling itself a general. It smiled. Bran avoided looking at it.

'I'll give you a day, Viscount,' it said. 'You two,' it said to the creatures behind it, 'give the man a change of heart, would you?' And it walked away.

'You heard the master,' one of them rasped.

The rudeness, the very arrogance of it--Damned if he would let these craven wretches make a sodding mess of the Keep.

'No, you _can't_ come in here,' Bran screamed, snatching up the nearest object that he could reach and brandishing it wildly.

The nearest red lyrium-tainted templar lurched forwards. Bran raised his candlestick, for that was what he'd grabbed, and made ready to strike.

A thrum sounded through the air, and a bolt protuded through the templar's neck. Bran barely managed to jump out of the way.

Behind it, a sword struck the templar's companion down.

'Ho, Seneschal,' Varric Tethras said, Aveline Vallen at his side. 'Problems?'

 

A WHILE LATER

 

'You can't be Viscount,' Bran scoffed.  
Varric rolled his eyes. 'Dare you to find someone else who wants this job.'

 

QUITE A BIT LATER

 

The latest Viscount of Kirkwall was throwing an excruciatingly ostentatious ball at the Keep, to Seneschal Bran's disgust.

'You can't just find an entire orchestra of Antivan flautists on this sort of notice,' he was protesting, while the Viscount scratched his beardless chin and twirled a quill in his fingers.

'Money buys you everything,' Varric Tethras, Viscount of Kirkwall, announced.

'Well, it's coming out of your pocket,' the seneschal groused. 'You've already spent--'

Varric waved a hand in the air. 'Are you still here, Bran? Stick it all on my tab.'

'This isn't the Hanged Man,' Bran snapped, incensed. 'Are you just throwing a party for your miscreant friends?'

'They did save the city, you know,' Varric pointed out. 'The Champion's coming.'

Bran twitched. 'Things explode when the Champion is around.'

'So double our guild insurance payments,' Varric said with a shrug. 'I want to celebrate my coming of Viscountage with a bang.'

'This is abuse,' Bran said after a long pause. 'Abuse of the city's resources and...'

'I said I'll pay for it,' Varric snorted. 'You should loosen up a little. I'll buy you some quality company from the Rose, how's that? Two or three?'

Bran sputtered.

'Well? Don't you want to celebrate my coming of Viscountage with a--'

'Three,' the seneschal said with a huff. 'And you know my type.'

'You do know Hawke's going to be there, don't you. I knew there was a reason you were playground mean to her.'

Bran raised his hands.

'It's going to be pretty weird when she walks in and sees you being comforted by three of her clones,' Varric tutted.

Bran shrugged. 'I'll live.'

'And she's bringing Ser Uptight.'

Bran shrugged again. 'He's hardly anywhere near as frightening as her.'

'Point,' Varric admitted. 'Anyway, I'm going off to the Hanged Man. Looks like you've got some work to do.'

The seneschal heaved a sigh. 'I'd like to have a boss who isn't a complete bastard for a change,' he muttered. 'Dumar -- although Meredith pulled his puppet strings to the point that she was really my boss, which was far worse -- Hawke, say no more... and you.'

'I'm the best,' Varric pointed out. 'I buy you hookers.'

That was undeniable, Bran conceded.

'And you were technically your own boss at one point,' Varric added. 'Provisionally.'

'That was the worst,' Bran said. 'There wasn't anyone to gripe about.'

'See you at the Hanged Man later,' Varric said, 'if you're a good boy.' He tossed him the keys that had been sitting on the table. 'I'll just assume you're going to be here before me on the morrow.'

The seneschal offered up a silent prayer of destruction to any gods that might have been listening.

***

Bran sneered his way through the obscenely-large party and wondered where she was. It had been years, and it aggravated him to no end that he still felt his stomach knot a little when he saw her, or spoke to her.

Varric's observation hadn't been far from its mark. He had hidden his weakness under the guise of bureaucratic sniping. Truth was, he did rather admire the Champion, and the gravitas of her rather wonderful derrière.

He was coming back from the privy when a moan made him freeze. He held still, waiting for a repeat utterance, and then he heard it coming from behind one of the curtained boxes.

He knew that voice.

Another gasp.

Bran swore inaudibly and looked for a gap in the curtains.

He was not disappointed. The Champion lay back in a bed of soft cushions, the skirts of her dress hoisted up around her waist, giving him a view that made him want to swear. The Knight-Captain -- Bran couldn't reconcile him with any other title, no matter how hard he tried -- the Knight-Captain was kneeling between her legs, looking up at her with an expression that could only be described as devout.

Gods, Bran couldn't blame the... the _boy_.

Hawke reached down and took the Knight-Captain's hand. 'You really think things will work out, Cullen?'

'We've been through a lot,' the Knight-Captain said, his voice low and steady. His thumb stroked the back of her hand. He leaned forward and bent down over his object of worship.

'Ahh,' Hawke said.

'Besides,' and here Cullen looked up at her again, smiling, 'what could be worse than enduring Varric's damned books?' He didn't waste time before losing himself between her thighs again, so that the Champion of Kirkwall let out a rather un-Champion like squeak.

'You stopping,' she gasped.

Bran couldn't pull away from the curtain. He also didn't want to be caught standing where he was; he was glad he had worn black that night, fading into the shadows as he usually did.

He hated the Knight-Captain with quite some passion at the moment, and yet he couldn't pull away when Cullen started doing his duty with his tongue, his eyes never leaving Hawke's. _Sickening,_ Bran thought. The noises she made were anything but. He made a note. The Rose's employees had some learning to do. Varric paid them enough, by the gods.

'Oh,' Hawke announced, and pushed her lover's head away after one particulary dramatic tremble. Bran almost snorted. As if Cullen had any idea how to please a woman.

He watched, furious, as Cullen stood and Hawke divested him of his breeches. A quick comparison had the seneschal heaving a quick sign of relief. Pretty as Cullen might be, he wasn't any better hung than Bran himse--

Hawke reached out and applied her hand to Cullen's instrument, as it were, and Bran's jaw dropped.

 _I'm leaving_ , he thought, infuriated.

But there he stood, as Hawke dragged her conquest forward.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not completely sure where this is going other than most likely down a rabbit hole of utterly nonsensical smut. Answers on a postcard :)
> 
> kudos/comments greatly appreciated :))


End file.
